


In The End, Our Memories Are All We Have

by Emeraldawn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, Memory Alteration, None Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:50:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeraldawn/pseuds/Emeraldawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn't want to go on without Derek.  Written for Stop_Drop_Howl at Live Journal</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The End, Our Memories Are All We Have

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Cal and Barb, for the preread/points. Also the story is being beta’d read as we speak, so update again in a few days. Sorry for any mistakes, but posting now because of time limit. Prompt was Memory Alteration

It’s dark when Stiles tracked Peter down at his house. Finding the man wasn’t hard. Scott said he had stayed put since that night, but Stiles just couldn’t bring himself to move from his bed. 

It was the first time he’d been out of the house in ten days. The first time anyone had left him on his own too. Watching him like he was a time bomb ready to go off. And to be fair, they were right, showing up at Peter’s doorstep was a clear sign his sanity finally blew. 

“I didn’t expect to see you, Stiles.” Peter stepped back, letting Stiles in. 

The man didn’t look any better than Stiles did. He look worn, tried, gray. It almost looked like Peter had been going through hell too. Maybe the heartless, conniving bastard had a heart after all. 

“I’m here because I need your help.” 

Peter raised a questioning eyebrow, a gesture so like his nephew’s that Stiles felt his heart squeeze tight enough to pain him. Derek and his damn sarcastic, talkative eyebrows. His first line of defense against Stiles and his thousand mile an hour spastic communication.

“Look, I’m only here because you’re the undead bastard that knows what to do, so lose the facial attitude. None of the others have the ability, and I need you to make them stop.”

Peter crossed his arms, looking at Stiles in his calculating, judgemental way. A look Stiles would have put more stock in if Peter didn’t look broken himself. “What do you need me to make stop, Stiles?”

“The dreams. The fucking nightmares are getting to me.”

“I don’t have the power to get rid of your nightmares, Stiles.” 

Stiles stepped forward, right into Peter’s face. “Don’t give me any of your bullshit, Peter. You brought yourself back from the dead, fucked with Lydia’s mind until she thought she was mad as a hatter, and even used your own dead sister’s nails so Derek could speak to his mom. I am pretty sure you know some werewolf voodoo so I can get some shut-eye.”

“Stiles—”

“No!” Stiles squinted. “You don’t stand there and tell me you can’t help. I can’t live like this, Peter.”

Peter’s sigh held a touch of sorrow. “I am sorry, Stiles. I don’t know how to make your nightmares stop.”

“Then take them away. Remove my memories.” 

“Stiles, you don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do. I see it every time I close my eyes, I see it. In some ways it’s worse than when my mom died. At least then I was expecting it.” 

Stiles paused, turning his back to Peter, rubbing his arms. Lately it was as if the air held an icy chill that penetrated down to his bones, eating away at him. “But with Derek… it plays over and over in my mind. I can’t stop it.”

Stiles could feel his throat tighten, making it hard to inhale. His legs gave out, dropping Stiles to his knees. Leaning forward on his arms, Stiles hoped maybe this time it would happen. That he would pass out and his lungs would give in. His heart rate would slow to a snail’s pace, until it just stopped. 

He could hear Peter yelling at him to snap out of it. The feel of the tips of Peter’s claws biting into the flesh of his upper arms. Opening his mouth wide, Stiles gasped for air. “Peter, there was so much blood and Derek… Derek wasn’t getting up.”

“I know, Stiles.”

“His eyes, they just _stared_ at me. But not because he was gone!” 

“I know, Stiles. I know.” Stiles could feel the heat of Peter’s hand on his back. “But, Stiles, you don’t know what you are asking for.”

“Yes, I do. If I didn’t remember him—The way his voice sounded when he’d just woken up. How he would take the tomatoes off my salad, but always gave me his croutons. What it felt like when he touched me. Maybe… maybe I wouldn’t want to curl up over his grave and die.”

Stiles could hear the gears in Peter’s head turning as he knelt next to him, eyes squinting. One true fact about Peter was that he was always playing a chess game. Stiles couldn’t care less how Peter figured out how to come out on top of this exchange, as long as Stiles got what he wanted in the process.

“I can’t take away the fact that he died, you wouldn't understand, and you would go through the same pain when you found out again. It has to be everything, about your relationship.”

Stiles nodded. “I understand.”

“It’s going to hurt.”

Stiles stood up from the floor, looking down at Peter. “No more than it does right now. When do we get started?”

 

_Stiles kept the spatula stirring the eggs. If left too long, they would brown and get those little crispy flakes that Derek always scrunched his nose at. He could hear Derek’s bare feet on the wooden floorboards above his head. He chuckled softly, thinking of Derek with his sleep-tousled hair, grumpily searching for where his pants had got tossed to the night before. Derek’s nose was better at waking him up than any alarm clock Stiles had brought over._

_Pulling the pan from the heat, Stiles turned to plate the scrambled eggs next to the bacon and wheat toast. Lazy Sunday mornings were one of Stiles’ favorite times. No work or school. No people that needed help or crises that needed to be dealt with. The world would melt away until it was just the two of them and Derek’s apartment._

_Stiles set the plates down on Derek’s little kitchen table when he heard the padding of Derek’s feet behind him. A pair of arms encircled his waist, pulling him back into the warm, firm press of Derek’s chest._

_“Morning.” Derek’s voice was still husky from sleep. Nuzzling the back of Stiles’ neck, Derek placed a kiss right above the nape, before letting go to get a cup of the elixir of life. Coffee._

_Reaching over to fill his own mug, Stiles watched Derek carefully measure out his french vanilla creamer to his liking. He had learned early on that Derek was a man that took his coffee seriously, and it was smarter, for life and limb, to leave well enough alone and let him complete the ritual on his own steam._

_Turning so his back was against the counter, Stiles lifted himself up so he was sitting atop the kitchen island. Picking up his own cup again, Stiles took a sip. “So, as your mystic wolfy nose is already aware, I cooked breakfast.”_

_Derek hummed through his own sip. “I’m surprised you got up so early.”_

_“Early? Derek Hale, it’s eleven o’clock. Were you planning on dognapping all day?”_

_Derek moved into Stiles’ space, taking Stiles’ cup out of his hands. In fact, Derek moved both their cups out of reach. Which was… whoa, big. Because Derek and coffee – they were practically inseparable. Stiles had pretty much zero doubts over who Derek loved more. “No, I had some other plans. Ones that would leave us both tried enough for a few dognaps.”_

_Stiles raised a questioning brow. “Oh you did, huh?”_

_“Yeah.” Derek put a hand on each of Stiles’ knees, spreading his legs wide enough to place his hips between them. He rubbed small, teasing circles with his thumb right above them. “ _Detailed_ plans.”_

_Leaning in, Derek kissed Stiles along his jaw. A light scrape of his scruff followed warm lips, tickled Stiles enough to send shivers down his spine. Stiles gave Derek a light push back. He grinned at the little pout that followed. “You need to stop, mister”_

_Derek’s playful smirk screamed _challenge accepted,_ and the man didn’t have a problem playing dirty, if the epic tickle war of March was any indication. It had lead to some pretty awesome sex though, so Stiles couldn’t say that losing had been all that terrible. _

_Moving his hands up under Stiles’ old t-shirt, Derek traced either side of his spine up to his shoulder blades. Derek’s large hands circled around to the front of Stiles’ chest, brushing his nipples._

_“Derek, breakfast is getting cold.” Stiles’ voice came out as a breathless sing-song._

_Derek lowered his head to hover around the button fly of Stiles’ lounge pants, his breath hot against Stiles’ abs. He licked a stripe up his abdomen, leaving a warm, wet trail and goosebumps peppering his skin._

_“That’s what microwaves are for.” Derek switched to the other side, creating a parallel path on the way down._

_“Are you being a smartass? This relationship only has room for one of those. And I’ve fought hard for that position. You are the strong, brooding, silent type. Think Angel in his earlier days. And I am the funny and… fuck, Derek, that’s cheating.”_

_Grinding their hips together with a swivel move that always made Stiles’ eyes cross, Derek chuckled, low and throaty. “I didn’t know we had rules.”_

_He brushed his thumbs over Stiles’ nipples again, this time with a faint scratch of claw. The hint of danger that Derek possessed always and invariably made Stiles’ breath hitch._

_“Right,” Stiles got out on a hitch of breath, “now the only rule is don’t stop.” Stiles tilted his head back, letting Derek handle more of his weight. “If you do, I can’t be responsible for what I might do to you.”_

_Letting his fingers blaze trails down Stiles’ body, Derek nipped his way across Stiles’ collarbone, traveling to his ear._

_“I wouldn’t want that.” Derek’s fingers teased the band of Stiles’ pants, dipping his fingers to sweep through Stiles’ happy trail. “You have a vindictive streak a mile wide.”_

_Stiles tilted his head to look at Derek through slitted eyes. Lifting his leg, Stiles slid up Derek’s hardening length. “I find it is easier when people stay on my good side,” he agreed with a smirk._

 

Like waking from a dream, the memory faded off, until Stiles was staring at a fuzzy, out-of-focus view of Peter’s floor. It took Stiles a moment to realize the blurriness was because his eyes were filled with tears. The memory was so vivid. Stiles could still remember how Derek had taken him apart with care he’d only learned from all the times they had been together, each studying how to play the other like a fine instrument. He remembered leaning up against Derek and the kitchen island, boneless, eating bites of cold bacon and eggs that had turned into rubber a long time earlier. 

“I had to stop, Stiles.” Peter’s voice was behind him, soft, hollow. Stiles would bet that if he had the courage to turn around, Peter’s face would look as haunted as he sounded. 

“Why, Peter? I want you to take them away.” Stiles’ voice cracked on the last word. He took a deep breath. He would not break down here.

“Stiles, are you sure you want to continue?” 

“Yes!” Stiles kept his head bowed, neck exposed to Peter. The area were Peter’s claws were moments before throbbed.

“I don’t think it’s wise, Stiles. This is going to hurt worse in the long run. And normally, I wouldn’t care, but I don’t think you would be as happy as you think living in a chimerical world as you would believe.”

Stiles lifted his head, looking across Peter’s living room. The room was clean and had the look of a home designer photo shoot. Art on the walls, all placed equidistance apart. All colors coordinating in a cool palette. No throw pillows on the floor or open paperback on the coffee table. Nothing to show that anyone had made this place their home. Except for a framed picture on the far wall of Peter and his sister when they were young. Stiles remembered finding the picture in an old Beacon High yearbook. Derek had given a copy to his uncle for his birthday. Stiles was sure Peter was shocked anyone had remembered. 

“Wouldn’t you do the same, if you could?” Stiles asked, focusing on the photo.

“At first, I wanted to. I would have begged for it if I’d had the ability. I grew up knowing that pack is everything. But it does get better, Stiles.”

Stiles whipped his head around, narrowing his eyes at the man. “Better? That’s rich coming for you. It drove you _insane._ You went off the deep end, killed your own niece, and then picked off every person that was responsible. You don’t get to tell me how it gets _better._ ”

He hopped off the stool and rounded on Peter. “Is that what I should do, huh? Go after the fucking asshole that _killed_ Derek? Murdered the man I loved in cold blood? Should I hunt him down and cut _his_ heart out and drop it in a pool of blood next to him?” Stiles’ voice got louder with every question and he tapped his finger hard into Peter’s chest with every point. 

“I would rather you kill him than taking the easy way out.”

 _What?_

“All this, taking away your memories, what good is it? You destroying the last thing you have of my nephew because you can’t _handle it_? Grow up, you are not the first person to lose a loved one and you won’t be the last.”

“Why are you on this high horse all of a sudden? What did you see?”

“I saw something rare. Something I thought Derek was cursed never to have.”

“What?” Stiles hissed.

“Love, Stiles. He and Paige were too young. Jennifer used him, Kate almost destroyed him. But you were the only one to _love_ him.” Peter moved over to the photo, picking it up. “You don’t understand, Stiles, when everyone is dead and everything burned away, memories are the only thing that keeps them alive in any way.”

Walking back to Stiles, frame in hand, Peter flipped the photo over and handed it to Stiles. Three newspaper clippings were on the back, each announcing the birth of a Hale baby; Laura, Derek, and Cora. 

“You’re asking me to kill my nephew. Only this time, it would be worse, because you are removing him from existence. Not that many people knew him, Stiles. And only few knew what we do.”

“I don’t want to be like my father, finding comfort at the bottom of a bottle.” Stiles rubbed the name, baby Derek Hale.

“Then don’t, Stiles. You can go home and cry in your bed, one day getting up and learning how to move on. Or you can help me, and repay those who took him away from us.”

“You want me to be a killer. I don’t think so, Peter.”

“Stiles, haven’t you learned that there are worse things you can do to people than killing them?”


End file.
